


before he speak, his suit bespoke

by temerity (forsanethaec)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Gen, M/M, New York City, vogue magazine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsanethaec/pseuds/temerity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Devil Wears Prada AU.] Of course, Harry hadn’t heard of Zayn Malik (Vogue editor-in-chief, king of the fashion universe, terror of Manhattan in tastefully embellished Berlutis) before he set foot in his office for an interview, because fashion is fashion, and Harry’s a writer. He isn't selling out, he's just got to work somewhere, and -- well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	before he speak, his suit bespoke

**Author's Note:**

> A 'Devil Wears Prada' mini-AU in which Harry is Anne Hathaway, Zayn is Meryl Streep, Louis is Emily Blunt, Niall is Adrian Grenier and Liam is Stanley Tucci ('s characters) (and Nick Grimshaw would be Simon Baker if this was longer but writing plot is for suckers) and everyone is men just go with it all the women died or something. Knux to Shan for enabling and graphiccing, hate u.

Harry’s phone wakes him up at 6:30 a.m. on his first day of work.

“Zayn’s moved the run-through up a half an hour,” Louis’ voice says when Harry finally manages to pick it up. “You need to come in right this instant. And pick up Zayn’s Starbucks order on the way.”

“What time is it?” Harry disentangles himself from Niall beside him, squinting at the clock. “Are you at the office?”

“No, I’ve decided to leave my wildly under-qualified new second-in-command in charge for the rest of the week.” Harry thinks he can hear him rolling his eyes through the phone. “Of _course_ I’m at the office, now write this down.” 

“What’s that,” Niall asks sleepily from the other side of the bed once Harry’s hung up.

“I’ve got to go to work,” Harry says slowly, like the words out loud will make more sense. 

“What, at four in the morning?”

“It’s half six.”

“Oh.” Niall blinks at him. “Alright. Have fun doing...” he yawns. “Whatever it is you’re doing. Designing pants.”

“Shut it, it’s a magazine,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m a _journalist_. You have fun tossing salads for rich people, then.” 

“Not fair,” Niall says. He tugs the blankets away from Harry and over his bare chest. “I make sauces, too.” 

Harry grins. He thinks of the frighteningly intense people in horrifically overpriced clothing at his new workplace, and is vaguely thankful that his boyfriend is so normal. “I’ll see you later,” he says.

“You can borrow one of my aprons to wear if you like,” Niall says, smiling. “Very fashionable.” He’s already closing his eyes. Harry gives him the finger anyway as he stumbles to the shower. 

 

Of course, Harry hadn’t heard of Zayn Malik -- Vogue editor-in-chief, king of the fashion universe, terror of Manhattan in tastefully embellished Berlutis -- before he set foot in his office for an interview, because fashion is fashion, and Harry’s a writer. But everyone kept telling him, “work a year for Zayn and you can get a job at any magazine you want” or “a million boys would kill for that job.” And he isn’t selling out, okay, it’s just fucking expensive to live in New York, and he’s got to work _somewhere_. 

“Is there some reason my coffee isn’t here?” he hears Zayn saying from inside the office as he stumbles in with a tray of overflowing, overcomplicated Starbucks orders crooked against his years-old Gap coat. “Has he died or something?”

Well, it had all seemed like a good idea at the time. 

 

A senior editor who Louis has said is called Liam turns up at Harry’s desk ten minutes after Harry arrives, a pair of expensive-looking leather loafers dangling from his fingertips. 

“I guessed a thirteen?”

“Uh -- thanks,” Harry says on a laugh, taking them when Liam doesn’t stop proffering them after a few seconds too long. “But I don’t think I need these. Zayn hired me, he knows what I look like.” 

Liam gives Harry a charitable look of pity. “Do you?”

Harry chuckles self-effacingly and wonders what gave everyone here the license to act like a bunch of dicks. He tries to hand the shoes back, but Liam ignores him pointedly. Harry rolls his eyes and sets them under his desk. He’s not sure where the shoes he’s already wearing came from. Maybe JC Penney or something. It doesn’t matter.

“Louis,” comes Zayn’s disembodied voice, wafting from his office.

“He means you,” Liam tells Harry. Harry blinks up at him for a stunned moment before nearly falling out of his chair as he scrambles to his feet, heart jumping nervously. 

“There you are, Louis, how many times do I have to scream your name?” Zayn says, turning lazily when Harry half-jogs into the room. 

“Actually, it’s Harry,” Harry says, giving what he hopes is a professional yet winsome smile. 

Zayn stares at him.

“My -- my name’s Harry?” Harry tries. “Harold, but, uh, everybody calls me Harry.”

The silence feels remarkably like a large rock crashing through the ceiling between them. Then Zayn laughs and, in the same breath, begins to fire off a litany of requests so nonsensical it sounds as though he has a particularly self-possessed case of aphasia. 

_A million boys would kill for this job_ , Harry tells himself dazedly as he tries and fails to retain any of it. He keeps getting distracted by Zayn’s outfit -- it’s the most tastefully expensive-looking ensemble he’s ever seen, the white shirt so crisp it’s like it came off the rack at Armani three seconds ago. Top button undone, no tie, beneath a perfectly tailored slate-colored jacket that Harry doesn’t know how he knows is perfectly tailored but that clearly is. A pocket square. Shoes like a work of art. And Harry doesn’t fucking care about fashion, so it must be something in the air in this place. 

“...and remind Joselyn that I need to see a few of those satchels that Mark is doing in the pony. And also I need 10 or 15 skirts from Calvin Klein,” Zayn finishes, already turned back toward the meek-looking page designers he’s been busy being underwhelmed by. 

“Okay,” Harry says, “what kind of --”

“Please bore someone else with your questions.” Zayn flicks at his French cuffs to get a glimpse of his watch, then looks up at Harry with an all-too-easily read expression: _What is this thing still doing in my office?_

Harry scurries. 

“Oh thank God,” he says when he sees Louis is back in the reception area. “He asked me -- a lot of stuff, I -- skirts,” he babbles, “he wants skirts, from Calvin Klein.” 

Louis blinks icily at him. “Did he say which skirts?”

“No, well --”

“Did he say what kind?”

“I asked, and --”

“You _never _ask Zayn _anything_ ,” Louis hisses. “Jesus. What else?” __

__“Um, there was something about a pony.”_ _

__“Right.” Louis glances at the ceiling in a _lord give me strength_ kind of way. “I will deal with all this, and you will go to Calvin Klein.”_ _

__“Now?”_ _

__“Oh, I’m sorry, do you have some prior commitment? Some hideous turtleneck convention you have to go to?” Louis asks as he picks up the phone. He’s also wearing a turtleneck, which Harry has to admit is rather sleeker than his own -- cable knit, and feeling right now as though it might as well be from Costco._ _

__He makes a mental note to take Liam up on his implied offer of a makeover and snatches up his BlackBerry before scrambling for the door. Louis makes no effort not to let it hit him on his way out._ _


End file.
